AAGULT Ch 104

Chapter 104

In that fleeting moment, the amount of information that violently pierced into his mind was vast. Because it was based on someone’s memory, it unfolded before Jaeha’s eyes like a movie—from the perspective of Seo Taegun, the one who had shown it to him.

The man, Seo Taegun, was an orphan. Unlike Jaeha, he had run away from the orphanage and wandered aimlessly for a time, until by chance he awakened as an Esper and was taken in by the Association. A dazzling life as an Esper, stellar fame gained from traversing gates—Seo Taegun had anticipated such things and had blessed his own future in advance.

Damn it, who would’ve thought I’d still face the same unfairness and sorrow even after becoming an Esper, just because I didn’t have parents.

“You’ve been assigned to the Galgamaegi unit. It’s a handpicked few among Espers. Not flashy, but they’re core personnel who uphold our society. To put it simply, this country runs safely thanks to talents like you. You should be proud.”

What a load of crap. Just because he had some abilities as an orphan, they dragged him straight in. Seo Taegun scoffed internally. But what could he do, with no backing and no connections? He had watched a couple of other orphans who’d tried to expose the existence of this unit get killed right before his eyes. So in the end, when told to obey, he could only obey.

Thus, Seo Taegun gave up on his dreamlike hopes and rolled through the mud. He carried out all kinds of missions. They were nothing but annoying clean-up jobs for the political elites and Association authorities—troublesome, unethical, and exhausting.

Time passed like that.

“Can we ever quit this?”

Yes, everything changed on that day. In his late teens, the young Seo Taegun grumbled as always to a fellow unit member.

Around that time, the foundation of the Galgamaegi unit had become unstable. At first, the idea sounded reasonable. Recruiting Esper orphans without guardians for unofficial operations—Taegun himself didn’t think the concept was bad. Using people with nothing to lose and no backing was always a practical approach.

The problem was the lack of enforcement. With nothing to lose and no sense of unity, even killing a few of them wouldn’t bring control. Structurally, the unit was no more than a glorified volunteer corps.

Even when missions went wrong, reprimands were light, often glossed over with excuses like lack of experience or still adjusting. They should’ve been strict from the start. The longer you wait to put on a leash, the harder it bites. Once Seo Taegun realized that, he stopped taking missions seriously. As long as the results were delivered, no one questioned the process.

It wasn’t just Seo Taegun. Unless someone had been brainwashed since childhood, most of the unit members eventually began performing their duties half-heartedly. Expecting genuine loyalty to unethical orders was foolish to begin with.

Naturally, the mission success rate dropped. Those overseeing the unit manipulated data instead of disciplining the troops, and mistrust only grew within. Though it appeared to be an organized group, it was practically a crumbling sore.

Thus, the Galgamaegi unit slowly fractured. There were no loud crashing sounds, but the structure was already tilting.

Then, whispers began to emerge from higher-ups.

Is this unit really necessary? Should we keep operating something that we can’t even manage? Wouldn’t it be better to disband it? Or maybe we should just gather children who show potential for awakening as Espers and start brainwashing them early on? Because once their minds have fully formed, who would follow such commands?

It was around that time that a faint hope began to take root in Taegun’s heart.

If the unit disbanded, he could break free from the shackles that had bound him. If only the Galgamaegi unit collapsed, he resolved to quickly register with the Association and become an official Esper—or run away and survive as an illegal one. No matter how hard that would be, it had to be better than this hell. At least he would have a choice.

But once the mood of disbandment began to spread within the unit, the upper echelons, sensing the shift, started pushing the unit harder. That pressure soon manifested on the battlefield.

Taegun was severely injured during a mission. One comrade died, and he barely returned, now undergoing rehabilitation. Though not fully recovered, he was receiving guiding in preparation for the next mission.

“……”

Beside the grumbling Taegun, Ido remained silent. Lounging sloppily in a chair, Taegun rolled his eyes and looked at the person sitting across from him.

Ido, the only guide in the Galgamaegi unit, looked emaciated despite being in his twenties, as if he had been through too much. Deep, dark circles hung under his eyes, and his skin was pale. When was the last time he slept? His unfocused eyes swayed listlessly. The fatigue and lethargy at the corners of his lips gave off an aura so oppressive, no one wanted to be near him.

“Are you even listening?”

“……”

“Forget it.”

Taegun snorted. It wasn’t like talking to a wall—this was worse. Any romantic notions about guides had been shattered long ago thanks to this man, his first guide.

According to the other unit members, this man had joined as the unit’s guide just before Taegun arrived and had lost his pregnant wife in a gate incident. About three months ago, they said. Taegun wasn’t sure why he had joined this particular unit, but he remembered being warned to be cautious since the guy was already a wreck back then.

Still, unlike the others who left him alone as long as his guiding was effective, Taegun occasionally prodded him.

He didn’t know why. Because that man had lost his family while he, Taegun, never had one? Because he didn’t have “that kind” of family? Or was it simply that seeing the man pine for something he himself lacked made him feel even more pathetic? Was it just petty spite?

“Guiding is complete.”

“Are you going?”

“It’s nearly assembly time. Esper Seo Taegun, you should also get ready—”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t nag.”

Taegun let out a sigh and stood up. Though his body hadn’t fully recovered from rehabilitation, one round of guiding had already made him feel significantly better. An Esper’s body was far more inconvenient than expected. The very idea that it became painful without guiding.

“Haah…”

As the man walked out of the room, leaving him behind, Taegun stared at his retreating back, then stretched. It was bothersome, but as the man had said, it was probably time to get ready.

“Assemble.”

The harsh, emotionless order rang through the space, amplified by a jarring mechanical voice that was loud enough to hurt the ears.

This was the ‘multipurpose training ground’ on the second basement floor. Though called a training ground, it was more a place for assemblies, warnings, interrogations, and occasional public punishments than actual training. The space smelled of concrete, floor detergent, and the metallic scent of steel equipment.

“Must be a new recruit?”

“Where’d they drag another orphan from…?”

The unit members stood in formation, each in their designated spot, but there was no discipline. With no affection for the unit, they muttered quietly under their breath.

The instructor slowly scanned the dozens of unit members. These were individuals who had become difficult to control—those who could no longer be suppressed by fear due to the unit’s failure to establish proper authority early on. His expression, always one of frustration, appeared somewhat solemn today.

“As of today, one new Esper is being assigned.”

The mechanically amplified voice filled the space. Sensing a shift in atmosphere, the murmuring unit members fell silent.

“They are classified under the control-stable grade and are currently being temporarily assigned under observation.”

At that moment, someone approached the instructor’s side.

One step, two steps. The footsteps were unusually light and far too slow.

The unit members instinctively tensed at the sound.

What caught their eyes first was a pair of small feet in worn-out sneakers—neither steel-toed boots nor military shoes. The child wore a black short-sleeved uniform shirt, loose-fitting enough to emphasize his thin forearms. His expression, however, remained composed, without a hint of tension—he didn’t look like a child at all.

“Baek Beomwoo, psychic-type Esper.”

Taegun swore the moment the kid stood beside the instructor. Bringing in a kid that young? Taegun himself had joined in his late teens, but never had a recruit this young come in. Just how old was he?

“Eleven. Detailed abilities are classified. Security clearance is A2.”

Eleven years old. Taegun wanted to clutch his neck but couldn’t—for one reason. This very child seemed likely to drastically change the already lax Galgamaegi unit—for the worse.

“Official purpose of assignment is to maintain emotional stability within the unit and to test resonance synchronization. Due to the nature of the unit—frequent emotional fluctuations and difficulties in ability control—this is a preventive measure.”

“……”

“……”

What did that mean? Emotional resonance? Were they planning some sort of emotional experiment on the unit members? Taegun narrowed his eyes. The fact that the child’s abilities were classified was already suspicious. He was too young, and the explanation too vague.

“Failed control, mission errors, omitted reports, and lack of discipline.”

The instructor listed off.

“Considering all these accumulated issues, the higher-ups have determined that Baek Beomwoo’s ability may serve as a catalyst to restore balance within the unit.”

The language was overly polished. Every unit member instinctively sensed it—this wasn’t simply about maintaining balance.

“Unit structure will be partially revised. The chain of command will be reorganized, and behavioral records will be comprehensively collected. Objections to operational orders will be strictly prohibited.”

In the silence, someone muttered a low curse.

“Fuck…”

Though the voice was faint, the nuance of helpless rage was clear.

“All abnormal behavior will be regarded as refusal to comply with superior orders. According to military regulations, disobedience is a disciplinary offense and this unit is no exception.”

Everyone began to murmur.

The anxiety triggered by the child’s presence quickly evaporated with the instructor’s following statements. No one even noticed the child anymore. The strict new regulations redirected their anger toward the instructor. Other members seemed to feel the same—no one blamed the child just yet. The air was filled with complaints toward the unit and its leadership.

But Taegun later regretted it.

They should have driven the kid out then, or injured him just enough during training to keep him from using his abilities. The real issue wasn’t the stricter rules. No one knew it at the time, but in hindsight, the problem had been that kid all along.

A ridiculously young child who arrived with an ominous undercurrent—his very presence changed everything.

Yes.

To put it simply, it was because of that kid that we all went down together.